Going home for Christmas was weird.
I loved it. That can’t be denied.
But it was really odd.
At first I thought that things had changed or people were acting different. But everything was just how it always was. ‘Cept for me.
Being in the family home was one of the first things to strike me as being odd. Between the day I departed, September 16th, and the day I returned, December 19th, was the longest period I had ever been away from home. 94 days. I had mentioned in a previous post about revisiting Nerja after years and it having an oddly familiar yet different vibe. Coming back to my home in Dublin was similar. It no longer felt like “my” home. I was a guest in my parent’s home. By no stretch of the imagination am I suggesting that they weren’t welcoming or accomodating – on the contrary; they could not have done more to make the 2 and a half weeks I spent back in Dublin more enjoyable. But it was something personal that I still can’t put my finger on that made my hometown feel alien.
I was struck with the sensation many times over the holidays. Walking through the streets of the city centre I felt more like a foreigner who knew the city well than a local. In conversation I kept referring to “going home” to Granada.
It wasn’t helped by the fact that walking through the door of my apartment in Granada after the break I was overcome with a feeling of “back to normality”.
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